Roses at the Carnavalet Museum in Paris

Back in Paris now and am continuing my Frenchless In France series.

Chapter Six
Water-Less In France

When I was in the States, I lived in New Mexico, Arizona, and Texas through the years. I was used to droughts, water restrictions and the fear that my State would some day run out of water. It used to drive me nuts when I drove through Scottsdale that massive water fountains were being used for landscaping and golf courses were being built with abandon all over the place with green grass stretching as far as the eye could see, yet everyone else was being told to conserve water. I made sure my yard just had desert landscaping and I was religious in following recommended watering schedules.
That is probably why, when I moved to Paris, I was surprised at how the streets were cleaned. Men dressed in a horrible shade of bright green carry green plastic brooms that look like a witch could ride them converge on just about every neighborhood. They sweep away debris that is in the streets into the gutter, where a large amount of water then gushes out and sends it down to the sewer lines. There is even a little piece of folded carpet where the water comes out to head the flow into the right direction.
I honestly couldn’t believe it the first time I saw it. “You mean, this is how they clean the streets? Aren’t they worried about wasting water here? It’s such a huge city, What if they have a drought?” Maurice couldn’t see what I was worried about. It had been done this way for years and, he said, nonpotable water was used, adding, “I don’t know why you think this is so bad. Look how America wastes things such as electricity and gas.” Well, maybe, but you won’t die without either of those. Got to have water.
With all of the street cleaners around, and you do see these men every few blocks, at unexpected hours, you would think the streets would be immaculate. Wrong. Okay, some of them are. Some of them look like they haven’t been touched in months. I seldom see those green guys actually doing any work. They are often on the phone, taking a cigarette or coffee break or laughing with a fellow worker. When they are sweeping, it is done in a rather offhand manner, sweeping here and there. If it gets in the gutter, fine. If the debris is too large to fit down the opening to the sewer, they just leave it there. I’m sure there are eager beavers out there cleaning for all they are worth but I just haven’t seen any. Their busiest time is in the autumn when the leaves start falling. If they don’t keep them swept up, as I saw first-hand once during a street cleaner and garbage collector strike, the run-off drains get clogged and water pools in ponds at every corner and become difficult to jump over.
Once or twice a month an enormous water truck comes down every street with a crane-like bar that goes over cars with a hose attached. As water under high pressure comes out, a man in green with rubber boots moves the hose back and forth getting the more difficult to remove items off the sidewalk. And watch out if you don’t see them first and get in the way: you are in for a drenching. I was told that there was some sort of insect repellent in the water to keep down the flies and I must say that I seldom see a fly in Paris. There are no screens on windows here and if it is not too hot or too cold you leave the windows open. Very seldom does a fly or mosquito enter our place. Maybe they’ve all gone down south.
One thing these high pressured sprayers does is remove the dog poop. Left behind or stepped in, there is a lot of it. The French truly love their dogs. There has been a campaign to get dog owners to start picking up after their canines but it has been slow going. A friend of mine was cleaning up after his and a neighbor came out, hollering, telling him that if he started doing it everyone else would have to! One of the inalienable rights the French feel entitled to is, apparently, not having to clean up their dogs’ droppings, no matter how disgusting the mess left behind. There may be a revolution over this. Millions are spent by the city cleaning up after dog owners. There is even a battalion of cleaners, who I can only hope are being well paid, who ride matching green motorcycles and have a device to vacuum up the dog dung. But even with those, you still have to be careful where you step. Lately, more people are getting their dogs to go against a building, under a tree, or in the gutter, but not always. It’s not fun to watch people doing the old banana peel slide if they aren’t careful where they step.
Special areas for dogs to use have been set up in most parks. It is usually a small, enclosed area with a gate and a picture of a dog to show it’s purpose. There is a very nice area called Place Dauphine with a large area set up like this. The owners of the dogs often sit at a café across the way so their dogs can romp around under their watchful eyes, just like parents of a toddler. The mutts usually run around and then saunter up to the owners just to make sure everything is still all right.
Dogs aren’t the only creatures using the streets as a bathroom. There seem to be a lot of homeless people sleeping on the streets and in the metro stops. I often am walking down the street and see a little puddle against a wall with a trickle of liquid running across the sidewalk. Occasionally, it will be from watering a pot of flowers up above, but usually it is from a dog that has peed against the wall. When I have my grocery cart with wheels, I often will lift it over the trickle because I hate to then carry the soiled cart upstairs. I just imagine all of those germs next to me as I carry it or wheel it into our apartment. Sometimes the puddle is so large I can only assume it is not from a dog, but a human, and somehow, this is even worse to me. There are narrow gutters that line the walls in the metro stops where the cleaning crew sweeps debris, then turns on water to wash it away, as on the streets. The homeless use these gutters to urinate in. I have also seen mothers hold their little boys over these to use.
We have what I call a resident homeless man, whom I privately call Pierre, who has procured an area under an old abandoned railroad track as his home. I think it used to be a storage room. He even has a door that he can lock and has set up large found pieces of wood around the perimeter for privacy. As I pass by, I get a glimpse of a double bed with a fluffy duvet and pillows, a chest of drawers topped with a vase full of plastic flowers, and a chair. In the evenings I hear a radio playing. There doesn’t seem to be any electricity as I never see any lights, and I can’t imagine there would be running water. Pierre is a friendly, talkative fellow, although I haven’t a clue as to what he is saying. He does his drinking as do many homeless, and I have seen him going through garbage looking for useful items. Once we left some of Maurice’s old shirts by his door. Now, I occasionally walk by and see him wearing one. I passed him one day carrying a sack of groceries with a bouquet of roses sticking out of it. I don’t know if they were given to him when a florist decided they were past their prime, or if he picked them in some park. I wonder who they were for. Being French, probably to spruce up his living space.
In the lower numbered arrondissements you usually won’t see any prostitutes openly advertising their availability on the streets. As the arrondissement numbers get higher, such as ours, the 12th, they are seen, especially at night, but there are one or two who stand at a corner near our neighborhood all day long, rain or shine, whatever the temperature. I wish the streets could be “cleaned” of them but the French don’t arrest prostitutes or chase them away. I’m not sure if I think prostitution is necessarily bad, I just don’t want to see it a block from where I live. Sometimes they round up a few and take them in for medical tests but I’ve been told that if a police stops and questions them, they simply say they were waiting for a friend.
A news report on television the other day said that most of the girls are from Eastern Europe and are desperate to make money. So, as I walk by our “neighborhood prostitute” standing there in a mini skirt and boots with four-inch soles and six-inch heels, I wonder about her life, and what must go through her mind because she has to do something like this.
One night Maurice and I were walking home and actually passed a car on a dark street where one of the “girls” was servicing a client. I thought about knocking on the window and yelling at them, but I’m sure some other car would be there again within an hour. In some parks and along highways outside of Paris, many vans parked at the side of the road where men can pull off and hire a prostitute, just like going into a hotel, only quicker, cheaper and more anonymous. Sometimes the prostitute will be sitting under a tree taking the sun on a beach lounger. Just another part of life in France.
As I’ve been in Paris for awhile now, I don’t cringe as much as I used to when I see water pouring down the gutter. I can’t impose my American way of thinking on a government that has done things the way they have been done for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. I may not agree with all that I see, but I sure am never going to be able to change anything. Part of living in a foreign country is becoming more accepting of how things are done even if you don’t agree with them or like them. And so far, the good things have far outweighed the bad.